


The Land Of Canaan

by fhsa_archivist



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Adult Content, Angst, Challenge Response, Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-13
Updated: 2007-09-13
Packaged: 2019-02-05 18:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12799620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhsa_archivist/pseuds/fhsa_archivist
Summary: Lorne finds himself a prisoner on a slave ship and his captors find a way to break him.  Written for the ironman7 challenge.Prompt: The path that I have chosen now has led me to a wall, and with each passing day I feel alittle more like something dear was lost.





	The Land Of Canaan

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Haven, the archivist: This story was originally archived at [Fandom Haven Story Archive (FHSA)](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Fandom_Haven_Story_Archive), was scheduled to shut down at the end of 2016. To preserve the archive, I began working with the OTW to transfer the stories to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. If you are this creator and the work hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Fandom Haven Story Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/fhsa/profile).

  
Author's notes: This fic contains references to and scenes of self-harm, specifically cutting.  


* * *

Lorne was a lot smarter than he let on - street smart, not book smart although college hadn't been much of a struggle. His 3.2 average had kept him in AFROTC and landed the commission that had been his goal since high school. Finding himself in the Pegasus Galaxy was the bonus of a lifetime - finding himself the prisoner of a space-faring parasitic society wasn't in his original plans.

 

The ships that housed them were barely pieced together scraps of various designs, scavenged from whoever they passed in their travels and manned by slaves culled form those same races. Fuel for the engines had to be mined and then processed from the raw materials - backbreaking and often fatal work. The lines of workers covered in grime and sweat reminded Lorne of bad episodes of the Twilight Zone.

 

He took his place amoung them every day, offering encouragement and watching out for those around him. His own Marines would move to cover for workers falling behind, too sick or too tired to work. Falling behind meant a lashing from the nearest guard, the weapon of choice a short whip with three knotted lines they called a beirt. On the occasion that Lorne or one of the Marines were caught covering for the others, they were flogged as well, the whip's tails cutting into their skin.

 

Over the course of a few short weeks, more and more of the slaves looked to Lorne and his team for guidance, taking their cues form the newcomers. Lorne was a natural leader and the mélange of human chattel welcomed someone to look up to. Their captors did not.

 

They singled Lorne out, separating him from the others at the end of the shift only to return him later without explanation, after the shift's meal time had passed. Until the day they pulled him from the work lines and handed him one of the beirts. He refused to take it and the guard struck the woman standing next to him, raking the beirt across her face, leaving bloody gashes. When one of the Marines started forward, another of the guards pulled his weapon, firing short range into his chest and he fell.

 

The guard handed the beirt to Lorne again and this time he took it, tucking it into his belt and returning to his assigned task. The guards went back to their posts, watching the prisoners carefully until one of them tripped, his load of rocks falling loudly to the deck. The guard nearest him pulled Lorne from where he worked, shoving him toward the man hastily gathering the spilled contents of his wagon. Without a word, the guards motioned toward the hapless worker.

 

Lorne didn't respond and the guard shoved him forward again, waiting.

 

He stepped back a little, not daring to help the man at his feet but refusing to comply with the guard's so obvious wishes. The guard pulled his own beirt, striking the man across his back. And then again. A single lash of the beirt was all Lorne could remember anyone having ever received before.

 

Lorne looked at him, barely contained fury broadcasting from every pore. The guard laughed and returned Lorne to his workstation. When the next worker faltered, Lorne was brought over again and again he refused to deal the punishment. This time the guard struck the man three times. Lorne caught on quickly.

 

When another worker spilled her wagon of broken rocks, Lorne stepped in, whispering how sorry he was and bringing the beirt down on her back as easily as he could. The guard beat her four times. Lorne closed his eyes and felt his soul crumble inside himself. It was almost the end of shift before he was forced to raise the beirt again and he struck quickly, drawing blood before turning away to empty his stomach into the bilges.

 

Over the next few days he learned to move quickly to punish the workers on his shift. If the guards got to a worker before he did, they would beat the person savagely – when he arrived first he was allowed to strike them once. The guards laughed when he would turn away, retching. He lost twenty pounds in the first month.

 

The sleeves of his uniform had been shredded long ago, so he kept dirty bits of rag wrapped around his forearm, tied with pieces of line to keep them in place. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually spoken. He avoided the woman’s eyes as he struck out with the lash before retreating to a dark corner, throwing up stomach acid and nothing more since he hadn’t bothered to eat.

 

He still slept amoung the slaves at night, ignored and reviled. He encouraged the two surviving Marines to avoid him as well. The others might turn on them if they showed him friendship – they were afraid to kill him, he was favoured by the guards but the Marines had no such protection. They kept their distance over their own protests, acquiescing finally when he made it an order.

 

Alone at night, usually afraid to sleep for fear the slaves would overcome their collective fear of their captors, he sat in a corner, the better to defend himself, no one could sneak up on his from behind, near a door in case he had to call for the guards. He stared dully at the others, the distance between them only a few feet and completely insurmountable. 

 

He turned the small piece of metal over and over in his fingers, it fit into his pocket and went unnoticed since the guards no longer searched him at the end of shift. It fit inside the palm of his hand and he squeezed, feeling the sharp edges bite into his skin. The pain felt good, it made the ache in his chest dull a little by comparison.

 

The guards took the beirt at night. He sat in the corner that he’d claimed as his own, unbothered but he knew they noticed him. The lights weren't shut out at night so he could see the groups and clicks of people talking to each other, see their stares as they referred to him, see their hatred. Everyone fell asleep quickly after they were returned to the den they slept in, the stench of unwashed bodies overpowering at first but fading as everyone got used to it again unmasked by the smell of the engines.

 

He unwrapped the bindings, turning the triangular piece of metal over and over, the yellowish lights glinting off of it, he put the edge against his skin, feeling it bite into the toughened silvery scars, sometimes he could let enough of the pain out and sleep.


End file.
